


Get In, Get Down, Get Gone

by authoresskika



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Dark!Katniss, Dark!Peeta, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Non-Everlark Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 19:26:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1359082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/authoresskika/pseuds/authoresskika
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Peeta Mellark is Coriolanus Snow's deadliest assassin. But nothing can prepare him for the mark that may finally be his perfect match. Dark!Everlark. Written for Prompts in Panem, r5d7. Banner by Ro Nordmann.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get In, Get Down, Get Gone

 

The tangy taste of Darcy's pussy lingers on my tongue when I wrap the towel around my waist to answer the door. Not that I care if Madge sees me—she's seen me before—but Darcy doesn't know that I know who's at the door. Just like she doesn't know that she'll be dead in a few minutes.

Madge has her hair pulled back tight and a hotel name tag brandished with the name 'Roxy' over her left tit. If anyone saw her, no one would think anything more of her than that she's some nameless, faceless peon on room-service duty. The way she looks at me before she breezes through the door, pushing the cart into the room, gives nothing away. In this moment, she's not my handler and I'm not the man about to murder the girl panting and writhing against the Egyptian cotton sheets. That's the entire job. I tell Madge to leave the tray on the dresser and hand her a twenty dollar bill. She unceremoniously stuffs it down her blouse, maybe thinking it'll get a rise out of me. But if Darcy tugging on my hair while I sucked her clit didn't get me fully hard, the thought of Madge's tits won't either. I've seen her before, too.

"Oh my… What'd you do?" Darcy titters as I set the tray on the corner of the torn apart bed. I smile at her and shrug my shoulders.

"Call me old fashioned," I say, plucking the pungent white rose out of the single vase and tracing the petals along her nipples before letting her snatch it away from me, "but I don't think a rendezvous like this is complete without wine and roses."

Her jaw drops like I've told her I fucking love her or something. She presses the rose to her nose and breathes deeply; I'm surprised she can do so without gagging. I pull the silver-domed lid off the tray and smirk appraisingly at the lush, crimson berries coated in dark and white chocolate before I pick one up by the stem and slide closer to her. I lose the towel in the process, and just as I'm holding up the strawberry, her hand finds my cock and starts pumping it. She's not bad at it. But I'm still a far cry from coming for her.

"And strawberries, of course," I growl, placing the stem in my teeth and leaning in towards her. I expect her swollen lips to part and her teeth to sink into the flesh, the hardened chocolate shell crackling as she inhales the poison that'll stop her heart and earn me my annual income twice over in one night. Instead, she sucks her bottom lip in between her teeth and sighs.

"Oh, those look incredible, but… I'm allergic," she says contritely.

Fucking hell. Her file didn't say she had any allergies. If it had, Madge would have brought up a pot of fondue or truffles, since the poison is in the damn chocolate anyway. The strawberries are just Madge's special touch.

I pluck the berry from between my teeth, careful not to let my lips linger anywhere near the chocolate shell, and pout at her. "Aw, I'm sorry. I didn't know…"

"How could you?" she says, tossing her flaming red hair over her freckled, sweat-glistened shoulder. "We just met this morning."

"But champagne," I say, laving my tongue along the curve of her neck and suckling her earlobe. "Champagne's alright?"

"Mmm," she groans, pawing at my hair again and to nudge my lips down to her nipples, "champagne is fantastic."

The bud falls from my mouth with a loud pop, and I wink at her. "Then allow me."

She whines when I stand up to uncork the bottle, clearly wanting me back where I was, tongue-deep inside her, before Madge knocked. I click my tongue in my mouth and shake my head.

"Patience, Foxy," I croon. "Let me do something special for you."

"You were doing something pretty fucking special a minute ago," she keens, rubbing her thighs together luridly and palming her tits. My cock twitches a bit at that, but not enough that I'd actually want to sink inside her before I kill her. I've got my standards.

Before I utter another word, I make it look as though I've dropped one of the champagne flutes on the plush carpet. I swear under my breath as I bend to pick it up. "Let me rinse it off for you."

"Oh, I don't care. Just come back to bed."

_Shut the fuck up. Or I'll force feed you the fucking berries._

"You don't want whatever mites live on this carpet slipping past those amazing lips of yours, Foxy. And I don't want them on my cock when you suck me off in a bit. I'll be two seconds," I tell her, and take both flutes into the bathroom with me. I have to work really fucking quickly, before she decides she wants me to fuck her over the sink or something.

The tiny mouthwash bottle is at the top of my leather shaving bag, positioned neatly just in case she decided to make it easy on me and gargle with poison instead of letting me feed it to her later. It's worked before, on a brassy blonde Madge and I decided to call Glimmer after I was done with her. Darcy either didn't care about dental hygiene the same way, or she really just wanted my face between her legs. I run the tap loud enough so she can hear it, and coat the inside of the glass with just the right amount of poison that it looks as though there's a drop or two of water left in the glass. Just a drop or two is really all it takes.

She's got her fingers buried in her pussy, frantically trying to get herself off in my absence. Her pale skin flushes when I catch her, and she bites her lip again. I tut at her as I pour the champagne into the glasses and hand her the laced one.

"Now now, Foxy. What are you trying to do to my pride?" I say lasciviously.

"You took too long," she whines as she puts the flute to her lips.

"Mmm… Maybe I like making you squirm."

A breath catches in her throat. I hold my glass towards her in a toast, and the same fingers glistening with her musky juices brush against mine when she clinks her glass to mine. She doesn't taste half bad. But I've tasted better.

"Cheers to us," I say. Her cheeks flush crimson as she gulps the bubbly liquid down, clearly more than ready to get back to it already. I swallow mine and toss the flute onto the bed before snatching her arm and throwing her over my shoulder.

"What're you…doin'…" she slurs. It doesn't take long.

"I thought I'd fuck you in the shower," I tell her, swatting her ass as I haul off to the bathroom. "I didn't suppose you'd mind."

She squirms against my shoulder, digging her nails into my back momentarily. "I… I don't…"

I turn the shower on with a flick of my wrist. "You don't…? Use your words, darling."

I expect her to wretch, for her body to reject the poison and try to purge itself of it, not realizing just how quickly it works. Her stomach is pitching where it's perched against my shoulder, but instead she's trying to speak again. I drop her in my embrace so I'm holding her in my arms. Her legs don't support her weight, and her eyes are dilated and already getting cloudy.

"Wha… Wha di—"

"Shhh…" I whisper. "It's so much easier if you just don't talk."

I press my first three fingers of my left hand to my lips, then press them against her own. I wonder if she can taste herself from how I had those same three fingers inside her, or if she can only taste the bitterness of death lapping over her palate. I hold her fast in my arms as she shudders once, twice…then she's gone.

"Next time Daddy tries to pull one over on Coriolanus Snow, maybe he'll think better of it, sweet Darcy," I say with a sigh. Then I step into the shower with her limp body cradled in my arms, and begin to wash all the evidence of our brief, lusty interlude away.

* * *

Madge lets out a long puff of vanilla scented smoke when I slide into the front seat of her car. The clove cigarettes she smokes are frankly more likely to kill her one day than our jobs might.

"Took you long enough," she says, releasing the parking break and squealing her tires, "I was starting to think you'd taken pity on the bitch and fucked her anyway."

"I had to improvise—turns out she was allergic to strawberries," I tell her. I toss the plastic bag of evidence I'd culled from the room when I cleaned it into the backseat, along with the latex gloves I'd worn. Talcum from the gloves cakes in the crevices of my fingernails, and I grab the discarded uniform shirt Madge had worn (complete with 'Roxy's' name tag still pinned to it) to polish them clean. It'll all be ash in an hour anyway.

"What the hell? That wasn't in her file," Madge says.

"No shit. But probably for the best, anyway. That little calling card of yours is going to rouse suspicion one day, you know. Coroners aren't stupid."

She rolls her eyes and wrenches the elastic out of her hair, releasing her blonde curls about her shoulders as the night air whips through the cracked windows. "The job's done though, who cares?"

She peels out of the parking lot and tears up the on-ramp to the highway. With 'Roxy's' uniform discarded, she's back in various shades of pink from head to toe. For someone in our line of work, where blending in is crucial to our survival, her designer pieces are always gaudy and loud. She says there's a certain pleasurable joy in being able to simultaneously blend in and stick out in a crowd. And this is the Capitol, after all.

"He wants us in a seven sharp. You've got the art?" she asks.

I brandish the just-developed instant camera shot and pop it in the glove compartment for safe keeping.

"Good boy," she purrs. "You coming home with me?"

I rub the bridge of my nose and feel my eyes cross behind my eyelids. "Maybe another night."

Her glossy pout is meant to convince me to change my mind, but I ignore her. She's a decent enough lay, but at this rate, it's practically a walking cliche for Snow's boys to fuck their handlers. Besides, she looks like she could be my sister, if I had any family left. And that creeps me out.

She drops me off in front of my building, a passive-aggressive move to get back at me for blowing her off—she knows I never use the front door. I nip around to the alley entrance, and take all seven flights of stairs up to my apartment. The place is a little less immaculate once I strip down naked and throw my clothes over the back of a chair. I pour myself three fingers worth of white liquor and drop onto the couch; with a few flicks of my fingers, my prosthetic drops with a thump to the floor and I stretch the stump of my left leg out on the coffee table. It's been chafing ever since I washed Darcy's body—some water must have gotten caught in the mechanism. My scar is an angry red where my calf once was, and it's a terrific relief to have it off and exposed to the cool air.

My sketchbook is tucked into the corner of the couch along with a charcoal pencil stashed in the spiral binding. I run my fingers along the edges of the taken pages, enjoying a brief moment of coveting my work before I flip to an empty sheet to begin Darcy's sketch. Maybe I'll actually color this one in, so the fox's fur is a vibrant orange, just like Darcy's hair. When it's complete I grin to myself. It's purposely obtuse: either the fox is dead or simply sleeping. It could be lying in a pool of blood, or my shading could simply be a shadow. Strangely, I much prefer to think I've just caught the little creature sleeping—I can't palate dead animals unless they walk on two legs.

I toss the sketchbook onto the coffee table and swallow the last bit of liquor. Normally, I'd take my dick in my hand and jerk myself off, but despite the last vestiges of Darcy lingering on my tongue, the thing is laying flaccid on my thigh. Maybe I should have taken Madge up on her offer.

I hoist myself up and hop awkwardly to my bedroom. I fall onto my bed a second later and slip between the cool sheets. I've left the heavy curtains cracked a bit, so the bright lights of the Capitol infiltrate what would otherwise be a dark tomb of peace. I lace my fingers behind my head, unable to settle in enough to actually fall asleep—not like it matters, really. My sleep is never restful anyway.

* * *

The news won't have Darcy's death until later that morning, after housekeeping comes in and hears the water in the shower running. By then, the last of me will have completely washed down the drain, and all that will be left are traces of her in the foyer and bathroom. It'll look like she checked into the room, went straight to take a shower, and from there, her heart simply stopped beating—which isn't even entirely untruthful. That's the beauty of our poison—it dissipates as soon as it enters the blood stream and leaves no trace. I wonder how fast they'll procure an interview with her father, the electrical company exec that practically runs District Five, and how much he'll give away on screen. To the public, it'll appear that she died of natural causes, tragic simply because she was so young and beautiful and wealthy. All the gold pieces in my safety deposit vault are a solid bet that her father will know exactly what happened, and know Snow was behind it. Maybe he'll drive himself mad wondering if we'll be coming after him next. Snow will be happy to let him wonder. My boss loves sacrificing the life of a child to punish the one who's wronged him.

When I wake, my scar is still inflamed and sore. I'd love nothing more than to leave my prosthesis at home, but if there's one thing Seneca Crane loves more than his ridiculous beard, it's calling someone else something nasty. It's the only weapon the wimp has at his disposal. I could strangle him with my bare hands without any trouble, and all he can do is call me a cripple. I won't give him the fucking satisfaction. Despite it feeling as though I've got gravel in my joint, I strap it on and keep in step with Madge as we stride into Crane's office for our debrief. I actually do my best at not showing my limp when it's hurting like a son of a bitch.

Cranes stares lecherously at Madge's tits as we settled into chairs across from his mahogany desk. By the time he remembers she has eyes, the pair of us are looking at him expectantly. He clears his throat to speak. "Well? Let's see her."

Madge tosses the picture I'd taken across the desk to him and he smiles like a snake. "Ahhh. Masterfully done, Mr. Mellark. So lovely in death, as always."

"I suspect she's still waiting to be found, what with housekeeping not due to start their rounds for another hour," I say flatly. He looks like he's about to get off from Darcy's corpse, and I can't handle that shit. My thrill comes from the job, never my victim.

"Mr. Snow will be pleased, I'm sure. I trust you took care to clean the room adequately?"

"When has he not?" Madge snaps. Clearly she's already had about as much of Crane as she can handle.

"Well I'm sure we'll see when the coroner conducts his—"

"The room is clean, Crane," I sneer. "I was careful. Now why are we here so early?"

He holds up his hands defensively, and taps at a keypad on his desk. A holo projector rises from the middle and the image flickers to life slowly as he tosses two black folders to us. "I figured you might be up for a little challenge, Mr. Mellark."

I'm about to open my folder when the projection becomes clear. It's a short clip of a woman jogging from the doorway of a building toward an idling vehicle, playing on an infinite loop. She's about Darcy's age, though at first glance, she's not particularly pretty. All the same, there is something about her: her grey and black layed blouse and black skirt hug the subtle curves of her slender body perfectly, and her dark brown hair flies behind her, kinked as though just removed from a braid. She wears a pendant around her neck on a gold chain that catches flight mid-stride, and I lean forward to examine it. I'm just able to make out the outstretched wings of a mockingjay within a circle of delicate yellow gold before Crane switches off the holo and leans back in his chair. I thumb open my file, hoping there's a picture or two of her inside.

_I know this girl_ , I think to myself. _I don't know how or from where—but I know her._

"Bristel Leevy?" Madge says with a cocked eyebrow. "What her mortal sin?"

"Mr. Snow has chosen not to divulge that at this time, Ms. Undersee. That isn't a problem for you and Mr. Mellark, now is it?" Crane looks like he's just waiting for us to challenge him. Madge shakes her head quickly, and I follow suit even though it's not Crane I'm addressing.

_That's not your name. That isn't your real name, is it, Sweetheart?_

"Mr. Snow would like Ms. Leevy handled by weeks' end."

"Seems awfully fast," Madge notes.

"Your compensation will be more than sufficient for such a short turn-around, I assure you," Crane says as he scribbles something on a scrap of paper. Madge chokes when he hands it to her, and slips it to me with wide eyes. It's more than double what I made for Darcy.

"Snow omitted an important food allergy in his last file," I say bluntly. "I trust this file is more complete, even if he's insisting on being cagey on the reason for the hit?"

"You have everything we have on her in front of you, Mr. Mellark," Crane says. "On my word."

Except her real name, I think. The thought is untransmutable and I cannot shake it. I simply know it to be so in my gut.

"Fine. The end of the week it is," I say.

"Excellent!" Crane applauds. "Mr. Snow will be so pleased."

He turns to Madge, who has questions about the woman's frequented haunts and where she lives in order to ensure the perfect set up for our rendezvous, but I don't hear any of it. As I thumb through the file on my lap, I can feel my dick begin to twitch and strain against my trousers, almost as though it's coming back to life after its pathetic showing last night. And I'm just looking at her picture. I strikes me that even though this girl isn't classically pretty like Glimmer was, or sweet and nubile like Annie, or dangerously sexy like Clove, she's something else entirely.

She's radiant as the sun.

* * *

When she walks into the Seam Street Bar, _Bristel Leevy_ (which I only reluctantly agree to call her so as not to confuse Madge) is wearing a wrap dress the color of sunset that clings to her narrow waist and slightly rounded ass in all the right ways. I'm already getting hard for her, making the presence of a film of condoms in my back pocket all the more fortunate—I'm simply going to have to fuck her before I kill her, or I'll regret it for the rest of my life.

She orders a dirty martini and sips it slowly. She studies the bar mats and her fingernails, and whenever the door opens, so looks up fleetingly. Her eyes, the color of molten silver, try not betray her disappointment as she continues to sit alone. Her blind date she's waiting for won't show up, of course. I simply need to give her a few more minutes to stew in the rejection before I make my move.

I have the bartender pour her a second martini as soon as she swallows the dregs of the first one. She looks confused for a moment before he gestures to me at the other end of the bar. The next few seconds will make or break this entire set-up: it's happened before that my marks decline this opening gesture, and I have to backtrack in order to get in their good graces. Thankfully _Bristel_ raises her glass to me before taking a long pull of the drink. When she licks her lips surreptitiously, I almost fucking come in my pants.

It'll seem strange, but I don't do anything else except smile. I suppose it's always possible she'll simply finish her drink and leave, satisfied that at least she ended up with a free cocktail from the debacle of being stood up—but she isn't that sort of woman, I can tell. And so I wait, because whatever way it shakes out, she'll be coming back to the swanky hotel suite Madge rented for us for the night with me.

And she'll be thoroughly fucked six ways from Sunday before she dies.

* * *

She is held aloft in my arms when I kick in the hotel room door and already she's writhing against me. It had only taken a single kiss to convince her to come with me, but what a fucking kiss it was—my hands had cupped under her ears, and our lips had moved in perfect tandem against the other's, suckling and smacking and simultaneously giving and taking control back. When we'd pulled away from one another, our foreheads were pressed together and our breathing came in gasps. When I said, "Can I have you tonight?" she'd simply replied with, "Please."

And so we'd kissed in the elevator on the ride up to our suite and her tomb, and she'd mauled my neck as I'd clumsily tried to fit the key card in the door. Finally I'd growled and thrown her up against the door, my knee pressing against her pussy to hold her in place as I sucked her earlobe into my mouth and hissed, "You can't distract me like that." She'd tossed her hair and laughed at me, and leapt into my arms. I could have taken her right then and there if it weren't for the fact that I knew I'd already been careless enough being seen with my tongue down her throat by the elevator security cameras. No matter—Madge can fix those.

A dim lamp near the bed flickers on automatically when I cart her into the room. She's petite and practically weightless in my arms, but I drop her on the bed heavily and force her arms up above her head. I whip the silky orange material off of her and stare down at her hungrily when I see what she was wearing underneath the dress this whole evening. Three hours of talking, of flirting, of stealing the olives out of one another's martinis and exchanging salacious smiles and innuendo before settling agreeing to spend the night together, and I still wouldn't have pegged her for the type to not wear any underwear at all. Her tits are perfectly shaped and pert enough that she doesn't really need to wear a bra anyway, and her pussy is neatly trimmed but not hairless, which I like. Even as she begins to tug on my belt and wrench the buttons of my dress shirt open to pepper my belly with kisses, I know the first thing I have to do is worship her.

She strips me of all but my undershirt and the tented shorts that keep my erection from her plump lips. If she notices my prosthetic, she doesn't say anything about it. I fall to my knees after I toe off my shoes and socks and claim her mouth, groaning as our tongues writhe and our teeth gnash together. I pull away, run my top teeth over my bottom lip, and kiss her again, gentler and more controlled but with the same fervor she's incited in my gut since the moment she'd strode up to my seat at the bar and thanked me for her martini. _Bristel Leevy_ , or whatever the fuck her name is, has no idea the effect she can have on a man like me.

"I'm going to take my time with you, Sweetheart," I croon, dipping my head to trace the column of her throat with the tip of my tongue. Her head tilts back to give me more flesh to sample, and her fingers entwine in my hair when I nip at the skin above her collarbones.

"I'm not a very patient woman," she mewls.

"I can make your patience worth your while," I say, tweaking her nipples and weighing her breasts in my hands. They fit in my palms perfectly, and unlike so many before her, they're real. I'm beginning to love that about her, even though she'll be dead soon—she'll die as herself, not as someone the Capitol made her into. It's a thing to aspire to, a thing I always wanted for myself. Maybe one day I'll get back to that, if I don't die before I can figure out how.

I trail my lips along her chest to her shoulder, and then hold her arm out to pepper all the way to the curve of her elbow. I lick all the way back, and smack my tongue in my mouth when I smile at her. "Your skin tastes amazing. I wonder how sweet the rest of you is."

It's a line, but it has its desired effect. Her mouth opens an inch or two and her breath catches audibly in her throat.

"Lay back, Sweetheart. Bring your knees up to your chin and keep your thighs together. I wanna taste you."

She obeys without reluctance. Her fingers curl in the pit of her knees, and the narrow curve of her thighs to her ass present her perfect lips to me for the taking. I rake my fingernails down the underside of her thighs, curve my hands around her ass, and press a solid kiss to her folds before taking a deep breath. She smells of clean musk and an underlying sweetness that I can't identify. How can someone possibly smell and taste so sweet without it being artificial?

She gasps as my tongue parts her lips. I lick her pussy up and down slowly, already tasting the seeping arousal dripping from her entrance, and twirl my tongue lightly over her clit. I lick her again and again, and am surprised by just how still she lays. Maybe it's because I'm teasing her, and not really giving her what she wants. I alternate kissing the skin of her thighs between my spread fingers and taking long, laving strokes of her, and listen to some of the delicious noises she's making. Only when her voice becomes a lilt of frustration do I bury my face in her and attack her clit with my lips, with my tongue, with gentle nips of my teeth.

"Oh, _fuck_!" she wails as her hips buck against my mouth. I hold her steady and thrash my tongue against the bud, hooking under the hood and rolling the little kernel with my lips. I suck it gingerly into my mouth and buzz my tongue against it until she begins panting. Her hands fall away from her knees and grasp at the sheets underneath her, so my hands take her place so her legs don't fall down on my shoulders and get in my way. I don't want her spread for me—she'll be so much tighter when I fuck her with my fingers if she just keeps her legs where I want them. I puff a bit of cool air against her before burrowing my face between her lips again, swirling around her entrance to catch all the delicious, salty rivulets that seep from her before finding her clit all over again.

She begins to chant the fake name I gave her at the start of the evening when her fingers twine in my hair, frantic to guide my ministrations. I let her for a moment or two before I pull my face away with a loud, wet pop.

"Hold your legs for me again, Sweetheart. There's a good girl," I keen, and nudge her by the wrist to let go of my hair and pull her thighs down closer to her chest. Her right forearm is all that's needed to keep her legs in place as I slip my left hand down her thighs, then coax one finger past her folds and inside her knuckle-depth before mauling her clit again.

"Just like that! Yes!" she cries, looping her left hand fingers in my curls again as I slip a second finger inside her. She begins to hum, low and throaty as my hand and mouth find a rhythm together: pumping, curling, lapping, suckling, sometimes in that order, sometimes all at once. When I have her wet and stretched enough to sink a third finger in, she actually begins to sing. Even I grow delirious as high, trilling melodies tumble across her lips, my fake name permeating the nonsensical words she's giving only to me before her walls clench, her pussy shudders, and she goes limp with my fingers still buried inside her.

I rear back on my haunches before lapping my fingers clean—she really does taste so, so sweet—and watch her struggle to regain her breath. My prosthetic nearly locks up on me when I get to my feet to strip off my undershirt and shorts before looking for the condoms in the back pocket of my strewn-aside trousers. As incredible as that clamping felt around my fingers, I know it'd feel even more blissful around my unprotected cock, but I can't be that careless.

I'm about to bend at the waist to retrieve my pants when she flips her legs over her head, rearing up briefly on her hands and knees to crawl to the edge of the bed, and then flips over again on her back. Her head is dangling off the edge, and she pulls me towards her with a firm grip on my hips. I realize the bed is exactly high enough for her to capture my cock as soon as her lips close around it. I jerk without meaning to and end up burying myself inside her mouth that much farther. I bend over her, my hands cupping her breasts as she sucks me deeper with a steady bobbing of her head. I slur out something incoherent and abrasive when I feel the head of my cock graze her tonsils—she's trying to take all of me at once. Most girls (even Madge) have tried to and gagged, sputtered, coughed, and given up, resigning themselves to pumping me at the base and slathering the tip with long laps of their tongues. Not this girl. I look down and marvel as she swallows me whole, her hands cupping me to move my balls out of the way so she can take me even deeper down her throat. She gags once or twice, I can tell by the little spasm of muscles around me, and that almost does me in. I squeeze her tits once more before withdrawing myself from her mouth, then grab her roughly by the ankles to turn her back the way I had her.

"I have got to fuck you _now_ ," I growl, and she nods desperately, swiping at the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand. I roll the latex down my shaft as quickly as I can without tearing it and scoot her down so her ass is just barely off the edge of the bed. I prop her calves against my chest, press two tender kisses against the inside curves of her ankles, and then prostheses be damned, I bury myself inside her.

The look on her face as I start to thrust is incredible, like she hadn't just taken all of me down her throat. Tight as I know she was from fucking her with my fingers, I hadn't fully grasped how she'd feel as her walls stretch to accommodate me as I plunge in and out. A couple of times she hisses in discomfort and I slow the snaps of my hips for her so she can relax. When her arms reach up and twine behind my head, bringing her thighs flush with her belly, I have to brace myself against her hips so I can drive in and out. My skin hitting hers with every thrust is music to my ears.

"Sing for me," I groan, wanting to hear her voice again like it was when she'd come for me before. "Sing for me while I fuck you."

Her lips form incoherent words, but the notes come anyway—low and rumbly, high and lilting, melodic and harmonic seemingly at once, and punctuated by her heady moans and gasps as I snap my hips harder and harder still. I know I'll want to relive this moment with her again and again, make love to her over and over—

My hips stop mid-thrust as I look down at her. Her face contorts in surprise and she tries to jut up, coax me to continue, but I'm frozen.

_Relive this moment with her. Make love to her. What the hell am I_ thinking _? What the hell am I_ doing _?_

I roll forward, slower this time, and she begins to sing again. I close my eyes and focus on the chords, the feeling of her tightness surrounding me as I push us both toward oblivion, and swim in the glory of this moment to prolong it as long as possible. When my spine jerks and I spill inside the condom, I do so watching her face as she nods and groans her approval. Then my prosthetic locks up again and I have to retreat from her so I can fall to her side on the bed without losing my already precarious balance.

We're both gasping for breath when she curls into my side and wraps her arms around me. I run my fingertips along her silky skin and bury my face in her hair. Then I press the three fingers I'd pumped in and out of her to my lips before pressing them to hers. She captures the tip of my middle finger in between her lips and suckles and grins at me sweetly.

I sigh as a horrific thought crashes down around me: _I'm a goner_ , I realize. _I'm a goner—and that makes me a dead man._

* * *

My first mistake was falling asleep. It's an amateur mistake at best, and as it turns out, fatal at worst. I should know better, but after that vigorous of a fuck, I don't know how I could be expected to keep my eyes open. I figured she wouldn't be able to, either.

There's a weight on my chest when I stir. I can tell from the heat and smoothness I feel that she's straddling my chest, still naked at that. My hands roam up with my eyes still closed to settle on the curve of her hips and to coax her to crawl forward so her pussy meets my mouth. Someone who tastes so sweet really ought to be worshipped over and over again, and I intend to do it as many times as she'll let me. That's when I feel the sharp point of the needle she's brandishing right at my jugular.

My eyes flutter open and I take in her face—it's still lovely despite her silver irises now unabashedly steely and her mouth twisted in a scowl. The scowl actually suits her, as though it's the natural expression her face always ought to wear, making the seductive smiles she's been shooting me all night cleverly placed and blatantly false. Even so, her lips are still bee-stung from our kisses. It's strange that at the moment I put two-and-two together that she's about to kill me, all I can think of are her lips.

"What's in the syringe, Sweetheart?" I ask, my voice still husky from sleep and all that sex. I should sound an equal mix of terrified to boot, but this isn't the first time I've believed I'm about to die.

"Absolutely nothing," she replies. Despite her demeanor, she voice is soft, soothing, almost like she's going to sing me to death.

"Ah. An air embolus. It's not a terrible way to go, I've heard. May I just ask one question before you press that plunger down?"

The way I'm speaking is disarming her a little, but not enough that she's getting shaky. I should have seen the signs of her training, clearly so similar to my own. Damn it all—I knew I wanted her for a reason.

"One," she says tersely.

"What's your real name?"

Her top lip curls in a snarl. "It's Bristel. Bristel Leevy."

I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth. I taste the bitterness of adrenaline mixing with the juices that'd dripped out of her I'd so fervently lapped up just a short while ago, and it's making me hard again. Even when she's about to kill me, she still has a positively hypnotic effect on me.

"No, it's not. Just do me the courtesy of telling me your real name—dead men don't talk, Sweetheart."

"You tell me yours," she snaps. "I don't believe 'Thom Darius' anymore than I'd believe you're Coriolanus Snow."

Aha. She knows who I work for. Fuck me, this shouldn't be a surprise. I purse my lips since I can't nod without burying the needle into my flesh. "Peeta Mellark."

In a flash, the prick of the needle leaves my throat and she's scrambling off my chest. It's like I've burned her with acid for how quickly she withdraws, dropping the needle on the floor before sinking into a nearby chair and pulling her knees up under her chin. It almost looks like she's shivering.

"You can't kill me all the way over there, Sweetheart," I say. I sit on the edge of the bed and kick the hypo over to her with the side of my foot. "Go ahead."

She shakes her head wildly.

"Go on. One of us ought to do it, and it should probably be you." I add silently in my own head that it actually can't be me. I should have known what a goner I'd be once I had her as soon as I saw that orange dress and those feral, gorgeous eyes. Moving inside her, making her mine only drove the point home, as it were. Even with a name not my own tumbling across her lips, I made her mine and let her get too close. This is why I don't properly fuck a woman I'm about to kill—it complicates things.

That's just it, though—I know she isn't just another mark. She never was. She got under my skin immediately, and she lodged herself there. This would have happened anyway. But I'm as good as dead as soon as Snow finds out I didn't follow through. And he won't be nearly so kind and merciful as an air embolus straight to my heart.

"I can't," she whispers. Her voice is a bitter hiss, like I'm asking her to murder a puppy instead.

"Why not? You were paid to do it, I assume? Maybe you scored a retainer and then a big bonus once you bring a lock of my hair or a pint of my blood? I don't know who you work for, Sweetheart, but the folks I work for—"

"Stop calling me 'Sweetheart'!" she screams.

"Then tell me your real fucking name!"

"Katniss! Katniss Everdeen!"

It's like she's hit me over the head with something blunt, but not hard enough to actually knock me out—instead I'm just dizzy, spiraling in place like a dervish.

"And I image that thanking you for saving my life right before I end yours won't seem very genuine," she says sadly.

It comes back to me in a flash. I only had eleven years in District Twelve before my parents sent me to the Capitol Academy where Crane found me. I remember, though—I remember the childhood spent helping my father in the hot kitchens of the bakery. I remember a little girl on the first day of school in a red plaid dress with two pretty braids in her hair. I remember a plangent singing voice in music assembly that made the mockingjays outside our classroom window stop and listen. Years later, I remember the mine explosion that silenced that voice and cast a permanent shadow over her face. And I remember the bread.

No wonder I'm a goner now—I was one as a child as well.

"Katniss…" I crow. I feel like crying. If I couldn't kill her before, I for damn sure can't now. Which means we're both walking out of here alive. And we're both as good as dead anyway.

"How the fuck did this happen?" she asks bitterly, her voice thick with tears she won't let through.

"Does it really matter?" I reply. "I… I can't…"

"I can't, either."

"Were you really going to?"

I sigh. "Yes, at first. And then I kissed you."

She stands and steps over the discarded hypo so she can insinuate herself in my lap. I nestle my face in between her breasts as we cling to one another. I lose track of how long we hold one another.

"How would you have done it?" she asks quietly minutes, maybe hours later.

I glance at the bedside clock—my stomach sinks when I realize how close we are to Madge's arrival.

"My handler… She'll be arriving any minute with a bottle of champagne and a tray of chocolate covered strawberries."

"And they're poisoned?"

"The chocolate, yes. After you ate one, it'd stop your heart. And usually I'd leave you in the shower with the water running, but for you, I was going to draw a bath… And leave you roses."

"That's…elegant."

"Snow likes a bit of theatrics," I murmur, stroking her skin delicately and holding her close. "The syringe?"

"It's quick and practical. Coin likes that."

Coin. So that's who she works for. The name is all-too-familiar.

Her lips move to my neck as I cradle her. We both know what will happen when we go back to our bosses with a job unfinished. She's the one who gives voice to it.

"They'll kill us instead. We're dead anyway."

I breathe in deeply and tilt her face to mine to softly kiss her lips.

"Maybe not," I say with a half-formed idea flitting through my brain. "Maybe we can beat them."

* * *

"Sloppy, Mellark!" Crane bellows. "Snow doesn't pay you to be fucking sloppy!"

I keep my cool and shrug nonchalantly. "Snow pays me to do a job. And you can pretty plainly see, I did it. The fire was a spur of the moment thing. And it made for some good television, didn't it? Snow gets off on that, and we both know it, Crane."

His cheeks puff out under that ridiculous beard, and I know I have him there. "What will the police find in the rubble?"

"It burned hot and fast," Madge pipes up. "That hotel cut every corner in the book to make their lodging as cheaply classy as they could and still turn a fat profit. The place was a fucking powder-keg, I'll be surprised if they find anything at all."

Crane pockets the picture of Katniss's lifeless face. "You better hope this little portrait sates Snow, Mellark. You won't be receiving a cent if he doesn't."

"The girl was taken care of," I say. "Believe me, the pleasure of this one was payment enough."

Madge scoffs as Crane jerks his thumb at the office door, clearly telling us both to scram. My leg burns at the prosthetic seam as I follow her to her car. She's revved the engine and popped the parking brake when she turns to me with a look of haughty derision on her bright pink highlighted face.

"You fucked her? You fucked her and couldn't clean her properly, so you set the fucking place on fire so you wouldn't leave any DNA behind."

I don't deny anything. I don't confirm anything, either. She huffs and tosses her hair. "Damn it, Peeta. That _was_ sloppy."

"Bristel Leevy isn't a problem for Snow anymore, Madge," I say flatly. "End of story."

She doesn't speak to me again until she drops me off at my building, and then it's just a simple, terse, "See you later." I relent and take the elevator for how badly my leg hurts, and ignore the chiming coming from my pocket until I'm locked inside my apartment. As I'm pulling the disposable phone from my pocket, I see the girl sending me the messages sprawled on the couch, naked as she came into the world and looking at me with lust in her eyes.

"Are you clear?" Katniss whispers.

"Yes. But fuck, you shouldn't be here," I say, striding across the room, the pain in my leg gone as I hoist her up to cart her to my bedroom.

"I don't care. I needed you."

Her mouth closes over mine as I kick aside the door and toss her onto my mattress. She tears at my clothes violently until I'm naked, too, and she wraps her legs around my ass to lodge my cock inside of her as quickly as we can manage.

I thrust into her hard enough the bed frame shakes. " _Fuck_. I need you, too."

* * *

When I wake, my room is the color of the dress she wore that night. Her head is resting on my bare chest, and she's murmuring in her sleep, her nose scrunched up in the most endearing possible way. The most deadly people in the world can still look innocent when they're asleep. I try to commit this moment to memory so I can replay it in my head later and live in it forever. My lips graze her hairline as she stirs.

"You know we can't stay like this," I say morosely. "One of us is bound to be seen by someone who knows we're supposed to be dead. It's just a matter of time before they catch us."

"What will they do to you?" she asks, and I know what she means.

"Cut out my tongue. Pump me full of any number of drugs that'll scramble my brain. Maybe hydro-shock."

She nods. "Coin is simple. She likes a bullet to the brain."

"So what'll we do?"

She props her chin on my sternum. "I don't know. But I don't want to be with anyone else. Just you."

"If that's what you want…"

"That's what I want."

I kiss her softly and wrap the plush comforter around us.

"I had to make a guy disappear once," she says as though she's already thought this through. "He was an engineer out of Three that Coin wanted alive, but stashed away. It isn't as hard as you might think it'd be."

"Until people come looking for us," I counter.

"Well then… We better get moving soon then, shouldn't we?"

"Sleep first," I say, pulling her tighter into my side. "And at least one more fuck in a comfortable bed."

Her eyes flash approval as her hand closes around my cock. "I love the way you think."

* * *

It's a strange feeling, I think, packing up your entire life. Had someone asked me in the days or weeks before I was assigned Katniss, I'd have said it would be utter madness to abandon my cushy apartment and lavish lifestyle for the unknown, all so I could be free to be with the woman I love. But there is more to it than that, too, because I know it's only a matter of time before Coin figures out that my hit wasn't carried out—that is if Snow doesn't figure out that I pansied out first. Running, of course, is our only option. At least Katniss seems to know what she's doing to prepare us, because I've never given any thought at all to my life after this.

I buy time, as much of it as I possibly can. I need a cover so I can disappear before Snow—Madge really—figures out I'm gone. In the end, the simplest lie is the easiest: I'm not sure I want in anymore. I'm debating retirement. And I need some time to clear my head in order to make my final decision. Crane had snarled at me, but granted the request, saying bluntly that despite the fuck up with the fire, I'm still the best of Snow's boys and would be irreplaceable. I'm good at identifying tells, and Crane has oodles—he thinks I'm just after a bigger payday for every job, and I'm happy to let him think that if it buys me—us—time. Really, I have more money than I need. And I know more secrets than any twelve men ought to, which are usually even more valuable. If Katniss can come through with keeping us alive long enough to disappear, I can use what I know and sort out the rest of my conscience and eventually die in peace. Or at least, a much more peaceful death knowing I'll spend every minute of the rest of my life with _her_.

I realize just how crazy all this is. And perhaps I should be too old to believe in signs and love at first sight. But Crane is right about one thing—I am the best. I'm lethal, unforgiving, merciless. If Katniss wasn't something special, even after fucking her she'd have been an easy target. And I know it goes beyond a couple of singed loaves of bread when we were children for her, too. Star-crossed or not—this was meant to happen.

I sneer at the door when a patented thrum of hard-polished fingernails wrap at it. I'd told Madge I'd see her in a week, and she'd seemed content enough with the notion of me being out of the Capitol. She doesn't pay me visits to talk—which means one thing. I stash my suitcases in the closet and rid myself of my clothes, since I know it'll be suspicious if she sees me actually dressed in my apartment. I even debate kicking off my prosthetic and using my arm crutch, but it'll take too long to put it back on after I get rid of her, and I want—need to be—out as soon as her car skids away.

She eyes my cock as she strides in, depositing her bright pink coat on the back of the sofa. "You didn't think you were leaving without saying goodbye, did you?"

"Since my train is in an hour, yeah, actually, I was. I was about to get dressed." I point to the clothes I've left strewn on the bed, but it doesn't stop her from popping the buttons on her blouse one by one. She's wearing a lacy push-up bra that's meant to get me where it counts, but my dick hangs limply between my legs. Only Katniss seems to be able to stir it, to the point I'm nearly always half-hard when she's in the same room. The thing is going to wither and fall off when I'm around her all the time to fuck her as much as I please, but damn, what a glorious withering it'll be.

"Oh, that ought to be enough time," she purrs.

_Not with that loose pussy of yours._

"I'm not in the mood for this, Madge."

"I'm sure I can make you change your mind," she says with a wink. I swivel my hips when she reaches for me.

"I'm serious. I want to take a nap for a little bit before my train, and I can't do that with you trying to suck me off. I'm not in the mood, so thank you kindly, but fuck off."

I expect her to pout. She narrows her eyes instead.

"What the fuck is up with you?"

"I told you and Crane—I'm done with this shit. I'm taking my money and getting out. Let someone else do Snow's dirty work. I'm not as irreplaceable as he seems to think. Fuck, you could make my kills for me. You practically do anyway."

"That's not my fucking job and you know it. What the hell is wrong with you?"

She's bearing down on me, trying to get a rise out of me. It works. I toss her against the wall and grip her hard by the shoulders and squeeze until my knuckles turn white. " _I'm. Out_. Madge. Get that through your thick head. I'm fucking out."

Her violet eyes flash hatred at me, like I've betrayed her somehow.

"You really ought to know, Peeta—no matter how far you get away from the Capitol, you never get off this train. You're a fool to think otherwise."

"Then I'll make my bed and lie in it. _Alone_. Now fuck off before I throw you out the window."

She bats my hands away and refastens her shirt and tucks herself back into her coat. "Your windows don't even open, Peeta. Don't make threats you can't carry out."

She leaves unceremoniously, a swirl of pink and cloyingly sweet perfume, and my eyebrows knit together painfully. The disposable Katniss gave me is dinging with a message when I pull my pants back on, and the words of the text message slay me.

_Who the fuck was that?_

* * *

We're knocking over everything in our way as we scramble to get our clothes off in the train compartment. Her eyes are almost as hate-filled as Madge's were, but it's the sort of hate that's going to guarantee us both a swift and earth-shattering orgasm.

"Your handler is a nasty old man with bad teeth and worse skin?" I growl at her as I tear into her panties.

"No, he was—oh fuck!—he looked like… He looked like…"

My thumb is rubbing her clit too fast for her to get a word in edgewise, and my fingers plunge inside her. "What did he look like, Katniss?"

"Like me, only…ahh!"

"So he was hot. And you used to fuck him too, didn't you?" I groan into her ear.

"Y-Yes…"

My digits pump in and out of her, her walls already fluttering as she teeters on the edge. I lick a trail from her earlobe to the corner of her mouth and push my tongue between her lips, letting her mewl into my mouth and scratch at the collar of my shirt.

"You're _it_ , Sweetheart," I tell her with bravado, replacing my fingers with my cock just before she's about to shatter for me. "You're it _forever_."

Her mouth falls open and her scream is guttural and loud as she comes for me, unable to stop herself as I begin to snap into her. She surges forward to kiss me again as I fuck her up against the wall, my balls tightening more and more with each thrust. If people can hear us, I don't know or care. She's mine, and I'm her's…and both of us need this if we're going to let this jealous bullshit go.

I come inside her with a quick jerk, my chest against hers pinning her in place. She pulls her fingers through my hair and nods at me.

"Forever, huh?"

"Or until they kill us. Whichever comes first."

Her pussy milks the last few drops of me as we slump together, panting and trying to quell the nervous energy that buzzes around us. In a few minutes, we'll straighten ourselves up, and quietly let ourselves off the train in the safe spot she has marked on our coffee napkin map. And then we'll be on foot until we're safe. If we're ever safe.

* * *

I miss her hair when she lops it off and bleaches it blonde. It doesn't fit with her skin tone, but anyone who knows what she looks like wouldn't look at her twice with more than a passing glance. I miss being able to weave my fingers through it when she's sucking me off, but she seems to like it when I massage my fingertips into the nape of her neck. She does this thing with her throat that gets me off in a matter of seconds, so maybe it's not the worst thing. Hair grows.

She trims mine down short and pulls brown dye through it. It's weird seeing myself as a brunette, but the disguises are just a part of our everyday now, coupled with crossing the street multiple times when we're in a populated enough town to buy food and provisions. We're frugal and make everything last. The further and further we get from the Capitol, the more luxurious of accommodations we spring for—an actual room in a countryside inn, a campsite A-frame, or at least, someplace with proper electricity and a kitchen.

We're skittish, no matter how many days go by. Katniss sees a man in a dark brown leather jacket and insists we change towns. I see a flash of pink, or get a whiff of vanilla-scented cigarette smoke, and stay up all night with my gun in my hand. We ease each other's tension with prolonged lovemaking and lurid stories and promises that it won't always be like this. We'll find the place that's safe for us, eventually.

The days continue to drift by. And safety seems more and more within our grasp.

* * *

We settle for a couple of weeks in a house by a lake she knows that is little more than a renovated shack. There's no running water, but there's a hearth and a creaky but surprisingly comfortable bed. We fall into it, both exhausted but neither able to sleep. We've long since agreed to always sleep in shifts, the other sitting up until they cannot keep their eyes open any longer and we have to trade out. She snuggles down in our downy sleeping bag and I sit and watch the fire, my fingers and toes twitching with every howl of wildlife or settling groan of the old house. Katniss stirs in her sleep a few times, her mouth twitching and forming syllables that strung together might make sense, but are incoherent as asleep as she is presently.

I'm getting one of those feelings—one deep within the pit of my stomach, where it's hard to contain just how nervous I am, so wary am I of everything and everyone around me. I got the same sensation in the hours before one of my instructors at the academy when I was a boy told me my family was dead back in Twelve, like I knew it was going to happen. In a way, I did, because by then, I'd already heard Snow's name whispered across Seneca Crane's lips. I already knew I'd been chosen, and my familial ties would be severed. I just didn't want to think of it, didn't want to believe it back then. But now I know better than to ignore this feeling.

_We've been found_ , I realize. I shake Katniss awake, and without me needing to explain, she knows exactly what's happening, too. She's ducking down low, pulling me to the floor with her as an arrow cleaves through the thin glass window to our left, shattering it for the second one with a flaming tip that immediately sets the bed on fire.

We're each palming our guns, knowing we have to shoot first and ask questions later. Our backs are to one another, the fingers of our free hands interlocked as we circle around on our knees, waiting for the world to crash in.

I see a pair of grey eyes and short brown hair before I hear Katniss's pistol fire. Mine shoots a moment later. Two thumps, and a bucket of water is tossed on the bed, extinguishing the lapping flames.

Then I see the mess of pink that somehow slipped into our shack without our attention being drawn to her, and my heart sinks. Not because I loved her, or even liked her that much—but because Katniss's bullet has found the space between Madge's eyes, and bright red blood is streaming down her face and soaking into her blush colored coat.

Madge hated red as much as she loved pink. She'd hate she ended up like this.

I hear Katniss gasp a name that sounds an awful lot like "Gale" as she lets herself out of the shack and around the side. In the moonlight, I can see her crouch down by the body of the man I shot—I'm assuming her former handler—and I'm not certain, but I think she might be crying for him. Or laughing. It's hard to tell which.

* * *

Their bodies sink into the lake as the fire rages in the shack behind us. Katniss's fingers are trembling when they find mine.

"We'll never be safe, will we?" she murmurs.

I want to tell her yes. I want to take her in my arms and tell her of course we'll be safe—that one day, we'll have a little house in a little meadow with children with pudgy legs she'll sing lullabies to and I'll bake bread for. That someday, somewhere, our family, whatever we make of it, won't have to worry about Coriolanus Snow or Alma Coin or the people their parents once were and abandoned so they could be together. One day we'll be safe.

I can't lie to her. So instead I ask, "What was she?"

She understands. "Number 24."

One more thing we have in common.

 


End file.
